The night had swallowed the city, leaving only the penetrating cold and the muffled sound of rain against the windowpane. You weren't at his place; you were in your own apartment, but Sarp had shown up an hour ago, unannounced, with only the excuse that he needed a break from things at home.

Now you were sitting on the floor of your living room, a blanket around your shoulders, while he stood by the window, his back toward you. His figure was a tense silhouette against the darkness. — "Why did you come, Sarp?" —you asked softly, breaking a silence that was as heavy as the weather.

He didn't turn around immediately. You could feel his internal struggle: the need to speak against the pride of maintaining his tough facade.

— "It’s cold," —he finally replied, his voice a little rough—. "I needed to see something that wasn't broken."

You got up and walked toward him, not invading his space, simply offering your presence. He was wearing a dark t-shirt, and the faint light revealed something that often went unnoticed beneath his jackets or in daylight: an old, faded scar near his shoulder, the remnant of some childhood fight or fall.

Your fingers rose on their own. You didn't ask for the story. You just touched the edge of the scar. It was an irregular, cool line beneath your touch. Sarp tensed for an instant, his body turning to stone, reacting to the unexpected contact. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he dropped his head slightly to the side, allowing you access. It was an act of silent surrender worth a thousand words.

— "Not everything has to be a fight, Sarp," —you whispered, tracing the scar line with the pad of your thumb.

He exhaled slowly, a long, controlled sigh. The sound of his breath was louder than the rain. Finally, he turned to look at you. His dark eyes were deep and tired, without the usual defensive spark. He was just a boy under pressure, and for a moment, in that corner of your apartment, the mask had slipped.

He didn't embrace you tightly. Instead, he wrapped his arms tentatively around your waist, seeking refuge rather than dominance.

— "Stay," —he commanded, but the word carried the vulnerability of a plea, not the harshness of an order. He buried his face in your shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of your clothes.